Vance was a pale guy with a comfortable beer gut who dressed like a Miami Vice extra and talked like a Canadian Tony Soprano. He wore white pants and a red button-down with parrots and palm trees. A trio of gold chains tangled around his generous carpet of chest hair.
“Water and coffee are free. First aid kit’s in the locker room in case you pinch yourself on the pole or get blisters from the shoes and whatnot,” he explained as he led me along a long, mirrored wall that reflected the pink and purple stage lights.
The bass was thumping, and there was a woman on stage wrapped around the pole like a koala. “On amateur nights, I spring for bagels for all the gals. You get a locker with a combination lock. Rule is no girl leaves the building alone. We got a big, beefy security staff that doesn’t mind sendin’ a message to patrons. No touching the dancers or the servers or the bartenders.”
I nodded grimly and pretended not to see the sea of men—and some women—who were crowded into booths and around round tables along the stage. All there to witness me giving up my last shred of dignity.
“You get two drinks from the bar per shift,” Vance said, holding open an Employees Only door for me. “I wouldn’t advise drinkin’ ’em both at the same time since Esther makes ’em pretty damn strong. You might fall offa the pole, eh?”
“Ha,” I managed.
I followed his red-parroted shoulders down a long hallway.
“Boss told me to bring you straight back when you got here,” he explained, tapping out a cursory knock before opening another door with a sign that said No Pants No Problem. “Special delivery, boss.”
“Boss” was Faith Vigoda, my best friend since fifth grade. She’d always reminded me of a tall, black Gwen Stefani who couldn’t sing. But Faith didn’t need to sing. She’d been born with a genius business acumen.
The summer before sixth grade, her lemonade stand made so much money she got permits and two part-time employees. She paid for college with cash earned by running an illegal term paper writing business for other schools. After college, she went legit, diversifying into property rentals and finally the entertainment business.
She’d been partner here for four years and had single-handedly doubled the club’s revenue.
“I’m so excited you’re here,” she squealed, jumping up from behind her desk to grab me. She pulled me in for a hug that I desperately needed.
“It’s so good to see you.” And despite the circumstances, it really was.
“You’ve been a little busy lately,” she said, forgiving me. “How’s your dad? How’s his leg? Tell me about work.”
I flopped down in a pink velvet wingback chair and filled her in on everything but the financial situation and Dominic Russo, painting a picture of a dutiful daughter and diligent employee.
“None of that explains why you’re suddenly here for amateur night.”
“Things are just a little tight right now. My first paycheck from the magazine was late, so I figured…” I shrugged and trailed off lamely.
“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll definitely be talking about all the things you’re not saying after. But first let’s get you dressed. How do you feel about sexy cowgirl or professional cheerleader?”
Nauseous.
“What do you think?” I asked, stepping carefully out of the dressing area on five-inch, white, patent leather, stiletto platforms.
Faith was spinning slow circles in a salon chair parked in front of a kitschy makeup mirror while skimming profit reports. She stopped and put down the paperwork and made me do a twirl.
This was not like Fairy Godfather Linus’s makeover. No. This particular transformation involved a checkered long-sleeve shirt with snaps knotted between my breasts, cheeky blue boy shorts that were already climbing their way up my ass, and sparkly blue pasties that I hoped no one else would see.
“Don’t pick the wedgie. Wedgies get more tips,” she insisted when I tried to do exactly that.
I sighed through gritted teeth and tried not to think about what I was going to be doing in about nine minutes. Gulp.
“You look great,” she said. She stood and shoved her hands into my hair ruffling it.
“Should I go heavier on the makeup?” Maybe level it up to Clown or Mime so I could at least have part of my body disguised.
“No. Wholesome is good on amateur night. You look like someone I’d take home to Mom if I were a man… or a lesbian.”
“Tequila,” I said weakly.
“Tequila, girl.”
We both shuddered.
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the makeup chair. “I’ll get you some water. You’re gonna sweat up there, so stay hydrated.”
I was already breaking out in a cold sweat.
There was a closed-circuit TV in the dressing room that showed the tables around the stage and bar. It had gotten more crowded since I’d arrived. I tried not to calculate how many eyes would be seeing my boobs tonight.
The backstage area was cleaner and cheerier than I thought it would be. I’d unfairly pictured strung-out naked women slumped in metal chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and dusting each other with body glitter.
There was definitely glitter, but the only dancer I’d seen had arrived in her minivan from her Pilates class with a fresh fruit smoothie. She wasn’t even here to dance. She was MC-ing amateur night. The rest of the amateurs were corralled into a secondary locker room location so I could have my breakdown in peace.
There was a long, low sofa along one wall buried under a mound of furry pink pillows. Five vanities decorated with pictures and personal trinkets like high school lockers took up the opposite wall. There was an open wardrobe area, much smaller than Label’s Closet but just as neatly organized and containing just as many sequins. Soft, pink-toned lighting gave everyone a fresh, dewy-looking complexion and oil diffusers filled the room with the delicate scents of peppermint and eucalyptus.
Faith returned with a glass of cucumber lemon water, and I guzzled half of it.
“I don’t feel so good,” I confessed.
She leaned down, putting her hands on the arms of the chair. “Listen here, Ally. Lots of people dance for money. Prima ballerinas, Jane Fonda, Laker Girls, back-up dancers, Rockettes. All women who make money by moving their bodies. There’s nothing remotely shameful about it,” Faith insisted. “You aren’t doing anything wrong. And anyone who tells you that you are is—”
“Part of the patriarchy,” I finished for her. We’d had this discussion a few times before.
But never while I was already half-naked and planning to get more naked.
“That’s my girl.” She squared me off to face the mirror. “Do you love to dance?”
I nodded.
“Lemme hear you, babe. Do you love to dance?” she asked again.
“I love to dance,” I said. I did. I really did. The only real difference, besides the hungry audience with fistfuls of cash and dirty fantasies, was that I’d be doing this dance with no bra on.
“You love the music, the lights, the dancing. And that’s all you have to think about. You’re going out there and you are celebrating your body. You’re doing this for you. Not them. They’re allowed to watch, but this is all about you.”
“All about me,” I said, more firmly this time. I wondered if Faith had ever considered a career in life coaching.
“Good girl. Now who has the power?” she asked.
“I do,” I whispered.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I do,” I said again.
“That’s right. You do. So, you’re going to go out there and shake that talented ass of yours. And then you know what you’re going to do?”
“Burn these clothes and get drunk?”
“No. Well, maybe. But first, you’re going to collect the money you earned, and then you’re going to come have a drink with me at the bar and explain to me just how bad things really are.”
I winced.
I knew I could ask her for the money. And I knew she’d give it to me. No questions asked. No expectation of repayment. But I’d promised Dad. It was the only way I hadn’t let him down yet.
I’d sworn that we would handle this the way we’d handled everything else: together. A two-man team against a disease that we both knew would eventually win.
My father was a proud man, and he’d instilled that particular value in me. If I accepted money from someone to help pay for his care, he wouldn’t just be disappointed. He’d be devastated. I promised him he’d never be a burden, and I promised myself that he would never have the opportunity to feel like a burden.
Which was why I’d been lying to him on his good days, telling him his insurance was covering everything.
I made a promise.
And I’d do whatever it took to fix this on my own. Even if it involved pasties. My Morales pride would keep me warm on that stage.
“So, what should my dancer name be?” I asked, changing the subject before Faith could demand a full accounting of my monthly bills.
“Hmm,” she mused, popping a blue raspberry lollipop in her mouth and studying me.
She grinned. “Candie Couture.”
“Oh, God,” I groaned. “Can I at least spell it with a ‘Y?’”
“Nope. It’s ‘IE.’” Faith smirked. “Now close your mouth.”
“Wh—” My choking and gasping after eating the first spray of body glitter she aimed at me interrupted the question.
